


Five Senses Won't Be Enough

by Syracuse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, also it's my actual first fic, and then actual porn, so don't hit me, there's food porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syracuse/pseuds/Syracuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I’ve never seen you make anything sweet. Don’t you like desserts ?’</p><p>‘I’m afraid my baking skills will disappoint you, Will.’</p><p>‘Come on, Doctor, you can’t fake modesty.’</p><p>Silence. And then a smile.</p><p>‘What would you like for tonight ?’</p><p>Silence. And then another smile.</p><p>‘Impress me.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Senses Won't Be Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drinkbloodlikewine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/gifts).



***

Will takes the recipe from Hannibal’s hands as the other man starts getting ingredients and ustensils from the fridge and the pantry.

‘Cream and mango panna cotta ?’ He asks with a light frown, not really certain about how to picture the dessert.

‘With a twist’, Hannibal comments as he gets a glass bottle full of what seems to be milk from the fridge. ‘I’ve decided to add raspberry caviar and replaced regular milk with rice milk.’

‘Of course you are’, Will sighs, taking the glass container and swirling it gently. ‘But how does a, uh, raspberry caviar even work ?’

‘Spherification’ Hannibal simply says. ‘You will see how it’s done soon enough.’

***

Soon, the counter is covered in bowls and plates, each containing a unique ingredient. A _mise en place_ , the psychiatrist explains, but Will just sees an unnecessary amount of dishes he would help to wash afterwards. However, he also sees a sweet tableau, eyeing the fresh mango purée, its bright orange color contrasting with the dark, fragrant vanilla beans, and then the milk, cream and sugar as three shades of white. His eyes wander on the counter, until they encounter a ridiculously big syringe. Frowning again, he shrugs lightly and gets closer to the raspberry bowls – one containing plump berries, the other a strained, bright red purée Hannibal had prepared earlier. While Hannibal is busy soaking the gelatin sheets in cold water, Will snags a few berries and decides to indulge himself. Eyebrows raised, Hannibal just watches as his lover’s lips get this shade of red he absolutely adores. 

‘Would you mind putting some music on, Will ?’ he asks, gesturing to the audio player next to the brand new oven with his pairing knife, the sharp tip darkened with tiny vanilla beans.  
‘Whatever please your ear’, he adds, as Will browses his CD collection, fingers wiggling around. 

Once his choice is made – really, though, he just chose the CD with the fanciest cover, as he was feeling Hannibal’s gaze on his back – he walks back to the counter, snatching once last raspberry before Hannibal can even slap his hand.

***

Will just sits here by the counter, observing Hannibal’s each and every movement. He doesn’t cook, he dances, he thinks, staring at the other man’s right hand as it swirls the first pan full of milk, cream and sugar – four times, clockwise -, then the second one containing the mango purée. The skillful hand then finds its way to Will’s jaw, gently cupping his face. He can still smell the vanilla from Hannibal’s fingers, and he lets out a small sigh as he closes his eyes and leans in slightly.

‘You can get some rest, if you will. I’ll come to you when it’s ready’ Hannibal suggests, his thumb caressing the stubble on Will’s cheek.

‘N-no, I...I’m alright’ the younger man replies, smiling and opening his eyes to meet his lover’s gaze. ‘It’s just that it’s, um, it is taking longer than I could have imagined. I can’t even be bothered to use cake mix’ he adds, laughing.

The mere thought of Will struggling with a whisk in one hand, egg in the other, eyes squinting in sheer confusion as they’re staring at the instructions was enough for the psychiatrist to lightly chuckle. He lets go of Will’s face and turns his attention back to the dessert. He quickly turns off the burner ; the cream and the mango purée must not scorch under any circumstances, or else the dessert is ruined. He sets the pans aside and adds the softened gelatin and stirs with a wooden spatula.

Once done, he steps closer to Will, who has renewed his assault on the remaining raspberries in the bowl. Hannibal had prepared an ice bath with a smaller bowl containing vegetable oil. Focused as if he were drawing a particularly detailed portrait, he leans over the bowl, holding the syringe full of raspberry juice with both hands. ‘Oh,’ Will whispers, remembering Hannibal’s plan to make a ‘caviar’.

Slowly, crimson drops fall into the chilled oil, but they don’t taint it like ink would taint water. No, instead, the spherical drops are caught mid-fall in the oil, like a surreal blood rain in the golden wind. Will tilts his head, simply admiring the strange spectacle. When the last drop falls, the harpsichord playing in the background stops as well.

‘Some desserts require as much preparation as a whole dinner would’, Hannibal finally says, holding the syringe upright after silent minutes of complete concentration. ‘They require time and dedication. Just like love does.’

‘Are you saying I’m a bad, cheap lover ?’ Will asks with a smile, but for a short moment Hannibal cannot tell if the younger man is just amused or also vexed.

‘Of course not.’

***  
Will watches with curiousity – and a certain hunger and impatience, to be entirely honest – as Hannibal ladles the creamy white mixture in some ramekins, and the fragrant mango one in some others. With infinite care, he transfers each ramekin to the fridge. Each layer takes about half an hour to be firm enough, so ladling the next layer on top would not blend and create a less-than-geometrical mess visible through the transparent glass.

***

‘What now ?’ Will asks, now that the final layer of panna cotta has been ladled onto each ramekin.

‘Let time works its wonder’ Hannibal replies, closing the fridge door. 

‘How long ?’

‘A few of hours, for the layers to firm completely and for the flavors to blend perfec-.’

With a mischievous grin on his face, Will gets closer to Hannibal, tugs on his shirt and leans closer. He places one kiss on his chin, then one on his lips, then another one, and another one, and another one.

Hannibal smiles and tries to protest ‘I could start making dinner, you know’, but the younger man stops him with one last kiss.

Will grips at his shirt again, one hand flat on Hannibal’s chest. He presses his body against Hannibal, now stuck between the counter and a very hungry lover. The younger man leans even closer and raises an eyebrow when he feels the good doctor’s hardening length against his own, and the apron around Hannibal’s barely hides it. Without ever looking at Hannibal, Will suddenly drops to his knees, lifts the apron and disappears beneath it.

‘Will ?’

Not a word, not a single sign showing the younger man heard him. Quickly, Will opens Hannibal’s pants, and within seconds his mouth is pressing kisses along his lover’s cock, hard and throbbing but still covered in silk underwear. Hannibal feels Will’s lips smiling and playing tricks against him, beautiful and craving and so deliciously cheeky.

Hannibal lets out a small moan as he feels Will’s hand finally freeing his cock and wrapping his hand around it, giving one long stroke soon followed by warm, wet lips kissing the head. Hannibal wants to tangle his hands in his lover’s soft, wonderful hair, but all he can grab hold of is the linen apron, too small a consolation for his desperate fingers. Gripping the counter with one hand, his other rests on Will’s head, and he’s silently cursing and smiling at the young man’s playfulness.

The music had stopped playing long ago, only to be replaced by Hannibal’s soft pants and the wet sound of Will’s lips working around him at an unhurried pace. But Will’s impatience is showing, as he licks and sucks hungrily at his cockhead, like a treat he’s been yearning to get a taste of.

Will can still taste raspberry on his tongue, have the tangy flavor play and dance in his mouth. Hear his lover’s sweet sounds of pleasure up above. Smell the intoxicating vanilla still lingering on the fingers hopelessly trying to touch him. Be unaware of the bitter taste on Hannibal’s tongue, unable to see Will’s perfect mouth devouring his cock like a starving man.  
Hannibal grunts. He wants to watch, he wants to paint every detail in his memory. Listening can’t be enough. Feeling can’t be enough. Tasting can’t be enough.

‘Will...’ Hannibal whispers.

_Begging won’t be enough._

He tries to untie the apron behind his back. One hand leaves Will’s head to reach the knot, but the younger main abruptly seizes his hand, then the other, and pins his wrists again the counter, before entertwining his fingers and squeezing, hard, harder.

Will has him whimpering now, ready to come and oh so overwhelmed. Hannibal’s cock feels so heavy in his mouth, and he thinks about his own neglected erection. He’d touch himself if he could, but feeling the psychiatrist’s hand trying in vain to escape from his iron grip is so much more exciting. 

_He’s close, he’s close, he’s close,_ Will repeats to himself. He licks one long, broad stroke against the thick vein, teases the slit, kisses and sucks the head, enjoying his treat, enjoying what Hannibal can’t see, and not seeing how he’s got Hannibal at his feet when he’s the one on his knees.

He trembles, he shakes, his hands clawing at Will’s wrist as he thrusts once, twice, deep into his mouth. He tried to keep his orgasm at bay, he tried to not give in so easily, he tried to think, he tried too hard and now he’s nothing but a mess.

The younger man gasps at the sudden feeling, warm, thick come trickling down his throat, some sticking to his tongue so he can taste him better. Will keeps on sucking, long and slow and hard, because he’s not done yet. He’s greedy and he’s hungry.

‘Will... please...’

He stops. He listens to Hannibal breathing slowly, trying to regain composure, perhaps. He considers his lover’s silent plea, now holding the base of his cock with one hand. But then, he shrugs.

‘It’s rude to talk with a full mouth’, Will just replies, before engulfing him again. By the time he's done, maybe dessert will be ready.

**Author's Note:**

> It took me 5 months to write a 1700 word fic. I'm a trash bag.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely @drinkbloodlikewine for beta-reading part of it, and to @nowwheresmynut on tumblr for the art that inspired me to write it. 
> 
> The aforementioned art: http://nowwheresmyart.tumblr.com/post/93684135081/3-kiss-the-cook


End file.
